Art
by Intricacy
Summary: “Oh, so you’re like a fairy now. Great. Malfoy the Fairy.” In which Scorpius Malfoy is more than who you think he is. ...And, ah, no, he's not a fairy. Rose is just wrong. Short Story, WIP


**Art**

_A short story_

Written by Intricacy

Yes, I am bored and I don't want to do anything productive.

Yes, this is a new format. It won't last. It's just here to match the new writing style.

No, I do not own Harry Potter. I hereby disclaim all rights to the Harry Potter universe. Pooey patooty.

* * *

In which he is introduced.

_Because how many people can honestly say that they know him?_

-----

He has this journal, you see. A little black leather-bound book his grandfather gave him one Christmas.

**Don't be stupid.**

_Scorpius loves his grandfather. He's a misunderstood, reformed man who, at times, still might be rather prejudiced._

_But the man loves his family. He's not perfect, but he tries to be the best for his grandson._

_And that's all that really matters._

He's not written a word in this leather-bound book, though he inscribes his thoughts into it with his favorite quill everyday.

One thing that not many people know about Scorpius Malfoy is that he is an artist.

----

In which he can pinpoint exactly when and where she first caught his attention.

History of Magic

September, Fifth Year

…_Well, because there really wasn't much else to do in that class but people-watch._

----

Another thing no one knows about him: History of Magic is his favorite class.

**Sorry. Let me explain:**

_It's not because of the subject matter. For Merlin's sake, no. Professor Binn's lectures equate to pure, uncensored torture._

_One thing you need to remember – though it may seem unlikely at times – is that Scorpius Malfoy isn't masochistic._

_Thi_sis when the pages of his journal are filled with fresh chestnut ink.

See, this is when everyone unwinds. When they relax and put away their social masks.

Because everyone knows that no one's paying attention to anything, because everyone is unanimously bored.

This is when he takes his journal out and records everything.

From this, he _knows_ his classmates.

Like how he knows that Jackson of Hufflepuff really isn't much of a Hufflepuff at all, but rather likes to spend his time grinning lewdly at whatever is on his parchment that he managed to charm blank to others.

Like how he knows that Victoria of Slytherin secretly harbored a crush on Dane, the nerdiest guy in Ravenclaw, in third year, though she had refused to spare him a glance in any other class.

If only anyone had turned around in their seats to look at him, sitting in the back, they would have seen that he was not the aloof, carefree boy everyone perceived him to be.

Then came fifth year.

Fifth year was the first year the Slytherins joined the Gryffindors in History of Magic.

Fifth year was the first year when Scorpius Malfoy watched Rose Weasley.

She was watching him back.

----

In which she retaliates to being watched.

In the Corridors

November, Fifth Year

_Because even he can acknowledge that being watched for an entire class is disconcerting._

----

"Stop staring at me."

"Sorry?"

"I said, stop staring at me."

"I wasn't staring at you."

"In class, I mean. Stop it."

"Weasley, I don't know what you're smoking, but – "

"No, you know exactly what I'm _smoking_, but I don't know about you. _Why_ do you stare at me every single class?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, though I'm flattered – "

"Stop _lying,_ you nitwit – "

" – I'm _flattered_, that you would delude yourself into wishful thinking that I lather so much attention onto you. Which, I assure you, is not the case."

"…"

"But I am curious. Why do you think I stare at you?"

"I can't say. I can't think like a psychotic ward patient."

"Brilliant. One thing we have in common."

"What's that? That we both have – God forbid – two eyes? Excellent. That's one too many things we have in common already."

"Hilarious."

"Anyways, stop staring at me. It's distracting."

"Because there's so much to be distracted from in that class."

"It's creepy."

"One thing I am not. Coincidence, then, that I do not stare at you?"

"You know you do. You're not fooling anyone. Stop staring at me."

----

In which he defies her command and continues to watch.

History of Magic

December, Fifth Year

_Because there's no one more interesting to stare at._

----

Two long locks of brown hair framing her face, highlighted with a natural red – colors that his black ink cannot mimic as he pulls a solid stroke down the parchment.

He looks up to see her blue eyes catch his grey ones, her lips pulled into a frown. He smirks in response before returning to his journal. Hair pulled back into a messy bun; a splash of pale freckles on the nape of her neck…

In that moment, he decides that she's pretty.

No, not beautiful. It's more… subtle.

A quiet, ordinary pretty.

Simple.

----

In which she decides to ignore him.

Library

February, Fifth Year

_Because maybe, hopefully, he'll go away if she doesn't spare him a glance._

----

His leather-bound journal is out, along with his chestnut ink and his eagle-feather quill.

**To clarify any misunderstandings – **

_He doesn't only inscribe his vignettes during History of Magic._

_There would be no point in capturing a portrait of a person's true self without another opposing image to contrast it with._

_And, though he loves History of Magic for the uninterrupted time for his artwork, he only has the class twice a week._

_He draws everyday._

Across from his favorite depiction of her – wide, blank eyes, staring hopelessly into space, with a bit of sorrow beneath what would have been a film of blue – he begins to pen her studying.

Eyes, focused.

Lips, moving soundlessly as she recites the textbook.

She looks up to her left to see her cousin, and those eyes light up and those lips smile.

He returns to his portrait.

**Just a warning.**

_There's a reason that picture is his favorite._

----

In which she is fed up.

Empty Classroom

April, Fifth Year

_Because at this point, she realized he's not going anywhere._

----

"Let me see it."

"You accost me, drag me in here, and speak gibberish. What are you talking about?"

"That thing you're always writing in. I want to see it."

"What thing? I don't write in anything."

"Don't try this again, Malfoy. That journal of yours I always see you scribbling into. I know you have it."

"Ah, _that_ thing."

"Let me see it."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why would I give it to you?"

"Because it has something to do with me. I know it."

"Again, you flatter yourself too much."

"Merlin! You're so insufferable!"

"My, what an insult. I've certainly never heard that one before."

"Shut up, Malfoy. And stop _stalking_ me."

---

In which he decides to humor her.

Library

April, Fifth Year

_Because… well, it's OWL time anyways, and he needs to study._

----

It's the time of year when the library is actually _full_.

One table is left: the one by the window, because everyone knows that sitting by the window is the most distracting.

He lugs his books over and sits down without noticing the table's other occupant.

**Pause. Just a reminder.**

_Remember when I said that he wasn't masochistic?_

_Yes, hold on to that thought._

When he looks up from his books to meet a mess of curly brown hair, he grins.

"Morning, Weasley."

Startled, she jumps up, her eyes narrowing as they fall onto him.

"Isn't there another poor soul whose life you can haunt instead?"

He arches an eyebrow. "Do you see another vacant spot in here? With decent lighting and functioning chairs, I mean," he adds, as she opens her mouth to point out the collapsed table in the far corner.

Snapping her mouth shut, she glares at him. "There's an excellent spot on the floor over there."

"Brilliant idea. Now why didn't I think of that?"

"You can just not study right now."

"And fail? Even better."

"Fine," she relents as she returns to her books. And, to her surprise, he does the same.

Hours later, and her mind is exhausted. She isn't sure how well she knows about Freddy the Goblin who tried to masquerade as a wizard in 1409 and managed to pollute the Muggle water supply, but she doesn't care right now.

Out of the silence, she asks, "Why?"

He looks up from his notes. "Why what?"

"In September. Why did you pick _me_ to stalk?"

There's a reason why he hasn't answered her questions so far.

Because it would make her feel uncomfortable, and in reality, he's more thoughtful than that.

Not to mention, that he has his own "why" question he wants answered first.

"Did you know," he says instead, "that Freddy the Goblin was never accepted by other goblins after his escapades?"

"Yes, and it made him vulnerable to attack when he decided that he would rather die by his own hand than die a painful death by another's," she recites dully. "And don't avoid my question."

"Damn," he comments lightly. "I thought it worked."

When he doesn't continue, she prompts, "Well?"

"Yes, a well. Freddy the Goblin hopped into one, drowned himself, and died."

"God!" she mutters, exasperated. "Why won't you answer my questions?"

He packs up his bags as he throws her a grin. "One, because you don't ask them right."

"Oh, so you're like a fairy now. Great. Malfoy the Fairy."

"I have neither stared at nor stalked you. Two," he continues, as if she hasn't spoken, "because you'd ask more questions if I told you the truth. And I'm not putting up with that."

He swings his bag over his shoulder and collects his spare pieces of parchments.

"Wait – where are you going?" she inquires.

"I see an excellent spot on the floor over there," he returns.

He doesn't look back, and she watches him as he leaves.

Watches, she realizes. It's watching.

Not staring.

* * *

_**Concluding Author's Note**_

Wow, this turned out to be a lot longer than I expected. And a lot more complex, too. I have only a rough idea of where I'm going with this, but we'll see.

A couple of apologies:

I haven't written a piece of fanfiction in what feels like forever, so the quality might not be up to par. I'm afraid I'm a bit rusty.

I'm uncertain about this new writing style as well. I wanted to try out something clear and concise (looking back, it's somewhat influenced by _The Book Thief_, which is an awesomesauce book that all of you should read), and this was just an experiment. Strangely enough, the plotline thus far actually _came_ from the writing style, instead of the other way around as it normally is.

**Feedback is greatly appreciated**.

I feel petulant when I say this, but honestly, I probably wouldn't update without a significant number of reviews due to a combination of homework load and only passive enthusiasm for the story, now that I have already fulfilled my original intentions of a new writing style.

Heh.

Merry Christmas!


End file.
